


five times buddy aurinko visited the medbay with an injury & one time she didn't

by onetiredboy



Series: Jay’s 5+1 Fics [4]
Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: An origin story, F/F, Fluff, probably angst or hurt comfort somewhere along the line, so more tags to come, winging this fic as i write it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-25
Updated: 2020-08-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:00:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26105350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onetiredboy/pseuds/onetiredboy
Summary: Buddy wouldn't necessarily say she's a /fan/ of getting hurt. She doesn't exactly enjoy being poked or prodded at, nor the whole being in physical pain thing. But she can't say it doesn't help that the medic who keeps treating her is very beautiful.
Relationships: Buddy Aurinko/Vespa Ilkay
Series: Jay’s 5+1 Fics [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1844275
Comments: 13
Kudos: 42





	five times buddy aurinko visited the medbay with an injury & one time she didn't

**Author's Note:**

> general medical TW for the whole fic, but specifically in this fic there's no depictions of injury but there /is/ depictions of fainting/passing out & being restrained
> 
> ONCE AGAIN i am ONLY WRITING bc of amythyst! thank u amy for dragging me out of my unproductive and also deeply deeply sad state to make me write something GOOD AND COOL.... thank u

“Ilkay, I need you over here!”

As far as first heists had gone, it had been an awfully successful one. Well, yes, there had been the whole affair with the last minute rescue mission and the narrowly dodged grenade but, as Buddy’s mother had always told her,  _ a good heist is one performed with a little pizazz, darling.  _

Or perhaps nobody had told her that. She is trying very hard to hold on to consciousness - her eyes seem to be lagging somewhat, still stuck staring at the inch of cave wall she was wheeled past several moments ago.

Still, she takes stock. Likely she won’t have been fired from her job -- Buddy Aurinko may be new to this organisation, but she’s quickly slipped a hand in all the right pockets and proven an invaluable contribution to the rebel alliance here on Rangia. She was the one who emphasised the need for a water-based approach to the attack on Assam, after all, and that was what got them their victory. She’s secure in that sense, and as far as her physical health goes, well, she’s sure she’s been worse.

She only  _ really  _ starts getting worried for herself when she blinks, and sees an angel.

It makes sense, she supposes, that the last image her neurons would conjure would be something appropriately dramatic. The face of the girl of her dreams, ready to escort her off the mortal coil. The hair’s probably symbolism, that seems like something her brain would do. Green for… what, exactly? New life? Reincarnation? It’s so long. That has to mean something.

The angel’s brows furrow together, and then her head jerks up, “What’ve you given her? She’s rambling nonsense.”

Ah. Whoopsie. Buddy laughs, or maybe she only does in her head. The world starts to look a little strange, colours swirling into one big palette of brown cave walls and bright brown angel eyes and brown getting darker, darker into black, and-

Buddy jolts awake with a gasp to find she’s been strapped down to a gurney. She thrashes for a moment, fruitlessly, and then confines herself to lying back, straining her neck to look around the room.

It takes her a moment to recognise where she is. Craggy rocks hang from the ceiling, and a light has been suspended between two peaks. Across the room is an elaborate set up of first-aid and other medical equipment, all of which has been stolen or smuggled in as donations by anonymous beneficiaries - some of them by Buddy herself.

She’s back at home base, then, and alive, and alone.

Buddy lets out a sigh, and closes her eyes. Might as well get some meditation in while she has nowhere else to go. She’s earned herself a little rest.

Buddy jolts out of a doze about five minutes later or so to the sound of boots on gravel marching down the echoing caverns towards her. She hesitates for a moment, then discerns the sound belongs to one pair of boots - likely the doctor - not a security team here to evacuate her for her risky stunt today.

“I was wondering whether or not I’d been forgotten,” she calls out by way of greeting, deciding it’s more dignified not to strain her head to look.

“I don’t forget anyone,” comes back the voice, a little hard around the edges but melodic, and Buddy decides dignity be damned, she has to know who it belongs to.

The woman in question is short, thin in the way Rangian rebel fighters tend to be - that is, not out of choice - and clearly a medic, most likely used to field work by Buddy’s guess. The clothes she’s wearing are uniform standard insofar as much as a ragtag organisation can have a uniform; she has on well-used cargo pants a size too large, lined with pockets of all shapes and sizes, a shirt with a red cross over the breast, and a large jacket thrown over the top with similarly large pockets and a layer of muck that tells Buddy that she’s just come in from out  _ there.  _

Buddy is really not staring at her clothes though -- no, the part of her that catches her attention is her hair. Long and green with dark roots, and as Buddy watches, the young woman lifts a hand and pulls her ponytail out. It seems almost to fall in slow motion around her shoulders, framing her sharp jaw and dark eyes.

And to think, right up until this moment, Buddy had thought all shampoo ads unrealistic.

“They gave you the wrong dosage,” -- and, ah. Buddy had still been stuck on the hair; the doctor has since walked across the room and started fiddling with equipment -- “I fixed you up, from their error and the blast wound, but you’re going to be disoriented and sleepy for some time.”

“Oh dear,” says Buddy, who has absolutely no objections to spending more time in the medbay, especially not if she needs to be doted over by a very striking woman.

“You suffered some trauma, I had to repair two broken ribs, but nothing serious was broken. You’ve been out cold for a few hours, but now that you’re awake,” the doctor walks over to her bed, and Buddy has conflicted feelings of both relief and disappointment at the feeling of the restraints holding her down to the gurney loosening, “You’re free to go. Your shirt’s on that table over there. You’re prohibited from driving for the next twenty-four hours. I’d say your best bet is to go back to the sleeping area and sleep it off.”

Buddy props herself up on one elbow. Her shirt, she realises somewhat belatedly, has in fact been taken off. She has less of a problem with this than one might think. “Are you sure?” she asks, using her years of acting classes to throw just a  _ hint  _ of helpless maiden into her voice, “You don’t need to monitor me for any changes? What if I begin to feel unwell?”

The doctor meets Buddy’s eyes for the first time, and Buddy heroically manages to fight down the medicine-induced giggle that tries to force its way up her throat at the feeling of her chest tightening. This doctor has warm eyes, but analytical, too, looking sharply over Buddy’s face and chest in a way that has her unable to hold back a small shiver.

“I can give you a quick vitals check if you’re worried,” the doctor agrees reluctantly, and then she lifts her hand to press the backs of her fingers to Buddy’s forehead, “You don’t seem to have a temperature, but you’re free to come back if you notice any sudden changes. Sorry it’s not five-star care, but resources are limited and there’s only one of me. I need to keep as many of my beds free as possible for emergencies.”

“Of course, I understand,” Buddy says, certain that only about two of those words have sunk in to her brain. The doctor’s fingers are cool, and she wants so badly for them to move from her forehead to her cheek, to hold her face closely while they stare at each other -- ideally after a nice bottle of wine on a planet halfway across the solar system from here, dripping in riches they’ve just lifted from that planet’s elites.

Except her fingers have already left Buddy’s forehead, and now she’s just staring at her with a slightly concerned expression, “You’re not about to pass out on me, are you?”

Buddy shakes herself to her senses suddenly. “No! No, I’m quite fine,” she shakes her head to dismiss her silly thoughts, and hops down from the gurney with only a light touch on the elbow from the doctor to help her down, “Thank you kindly for your care, Doctor…” a memory floats back to her suddenly, hazy as it is, and she smiles, “Ilkay.”

If she thought the good doctor might have been flattered by the recognition, she’s wrong. Instead, Doctor Ilkay’s shoulders draw in and her eyes at once go flat and withdrawn. “It’s V,” she says, “No Doctor anything, just… V.”

“V,” Buddy corrects, “My apologies.” Then, because even while she’s terrified of making an awful first impression, curiosity has always been her downfall, she pushes further: “Does it stand for anything?”

“No,” this comes out a little harshly, but some of the tension drains out of V’s shoulders, and her eyes flit around the room while she elaborates, “Not yet.”

Her eyes meet Buddy’s again, the look on her face like she’s challenging Buddy to ask more, but Buddy only smiles.

“It suits you,” she says, and means it -- the single syllable already reverberating in Buddy’s thoughts in sync to the beats of her heart. “I hope to see you again soon.”

V snorts at that, which by rights shouldn’t do the things it does to Buddy’s heart, “No offence, but given the state of most people who wind up here, the feeling isn’t mutual.”


End file.
